


Liberated

by orphan_account



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 75th Anniversary of D-Day, Angst?, Gen, Invasion of Normandy, Post-World War II, Reflection, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-11 21:24:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19117993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: On the seventy-fifth anniversary of D-Day, Francis Bonnefoy stands on the shores of Normandy, stares out at where the sea meets the sky, and prays for thousands of souls.





	Liberated

**Author's Note:**

> To all of those who stormed the gates of hell seventy-five years ago: all of you, your sacrifices saved the world.

 

`·.¸¸.·´ ★ `·.¸¸.·´

 

D-Day was seventy-five years ago.

 

On some days, it feels like yesterday. And others, like it was a thousand years ago.

 

Francis Bonnefoy stands where the gentle waves lap at the sand of Normandy, specifically Omaha, where Americans had landed. It is calm, with the sound of faraway birds and the water and the shifting of the sand underfoot.

 

In truth, Francis had never seen the seaborne assault, the thousands of soldiers, the bullets and the blood, never heard the screams and shouts and gunfire and the sound of bodies hitting the beach. When D-Day was happening, he had been strapped to a table somewhere in Paris, cold, numb, alone, surrounded by morbid scientists who clapped their hands in glee at the idea of having an immortal plaything.

 

Three quarters of a century later, Francis still remembers trying to scream around the gag they forced into his mouth, still remembers the feeling of being cut open and having organs poked with scalpels, still remembers needles full of strange diseases and uncertainties being forced into his arms.

 

Three quarters of a century later, Francis still remembers what it feels like to be completely powerless, the only escape being to detach himself, pretend what was happening to him wasn’t happening to _him_ , and hope he makes it, hope someone comes and saves him because he knew by then he couldn't save himself. He was too weak, too sick, too unmotivated.

 

Three quarters of a century later, Francis still remembers the church bells that rang freedom, remembers Arthur’s face when he found Francis and whispered, _“Oh, god, what did they do to you?”_ He still remembers being picked up gently, having the first non-painful contact in four years. He remembers the taste of _liberation_ when he saw the sun for the first time in four years. He remembers the cheers, dissolving into tears, when he realized that he was free again, and even if the war wasn’t over yet, _he was free_ , and end was in sight.

 

There were messes, nights were the sky turned red with fire and blood, bombs before and during the assault, but D-Day had been the onset of liberation, the renewed hope that all was not lost, this time backed up by guns and bullets and tanks and men and blood to promise return of France as _France_ and not as Vichy.

 

The worst part was the price. The price of freedom always seemed to be paid by blood.

 

Francis had been alive long enough and seen enough to know that liberation was a word drenched in red, stitched together by the lives of those who sacrificed everything in its name.

 

Omaha feels haunted, like there’s thousands of American ghosts that wander and wait and whisper in a voiceless language. The sea is gentle when it touches Francis’s feet – inviting, even – like it’s forgotten all the horrors and pain and bombs and men marching onto the shore.  Like it’s never seen death and destruction. The sea is the home of burials and wreckage and ghost platoons.

 

`·.¸¸.·´ ★ `·.¸¸.·´

 

Francis walks across the war-scarred beaches. They’re so serene now, it’s only his centuries of life that permit him to envision the hundred and a half thousand soldiers who stormed them seventy-five years ago.

 

It’s four in the morning, around the time D-Day started. There’s milling behind him, setting up for the anniversary, discussing. Behind him, four flags wave - American, British, Canadian, and French. He’s supposed to be back there, but he’s wandering around. On the anniversaries, he’s never been good at focusing.

 

Despite never witnessing D-Day, he had sensed it. Paris wouldn’t be freed until only a few months later, but from the time the first boots stepped on Normandy to when the Paris had been liberated, he had felt the resurgence of hope from the French people, and the torture of the Nazis became a bit more bearable until it stopped for good.

 

For the thousands of soldiers who had died, he hopes that they know they won, that freedom had returned to France and to Europe, that the Nazis got defeated. Even now, passed the seven-decade mark, the hours are clear in his head. Churchill had said something about that – "Never in the field of human conflict has so much been owed by so many to so few."

 

He’s seen some of the films and photos and then the recreations. _The Longest Day_ , _Overlord, D-Day, Saving Private Ryan._ He's read firsthand accounts, spoken with those who fought, been to the cemetery. Every anniversary, he relearns D-Day, even though it's carved dozens of grooves of undying gratitude for those who sacrificed everything for France and for Europe into his brain.

 

He swore to himself that he'd remember them, the thousands that gave up their lives, the thousands that found D-Day to be their last day. As long as he was alive, he'd remember the feeling of the world changing forever when they stepped on the beaches, he'd remember as they battled their way from Brittany to Paris and liberation day stopped being an  _if_ and became a  _when_. He's visited the cemetery enough to commit the sight of the nine thousand, three hundred and eighty-eight graves to memory, and enough to know the bronze statue enough to visualize it in perfect detail. And now, the first stone of the British memorial had been laid down.

 

There had been no glory on those beaches.

  
As long as France lives, the nation will remember D-Day, the sacrifices, the bloodshed, and honor those who fought and those who died. Honor all of the soldiers that put everything on the line, their sacrifices. Honor them by working for peace, a better world. Honor them by making sure that there never comes another day where so many have to lay down everything. Honor them by making sure that liberty survives.

 

( _When he remembers them, he wonders how foolish someone must be to say that war is glorious_.)

 

`·.¸¸.·´ ★ `·.¸¸.·´

 

**Author's Note:**

> I was planning to post this earlier today, but that didn't go as planned. Well, it's still June 6...
> 
> Honor all of those who fought and died on D-Day and the following operations. They secured the liberty of an entire continent, marched the path of toppling the Nazis, and saved the world from the brink of disaster.


End file.
